


A Brief Exchange

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Dead Fish, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anyelle, Crossover, F/M, Once Upon A Time Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a pure-fluff crossover between Robert Carlyle's character in Dead Fish and Belle from OUaT.  Danny Devine is a foul-mouthed loan shark, and Belle is a widow 5 years outside the Storybrooke timeline.  This fic was nominated for an Espenson Award in the Crossover category, so I'm publishing chapters here for ease of access / editorial reasons. Rated M for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Exchange

“Well if this isn't just fucking perfect-o. Where is that cunt Moe French? I don’t have fucking time to be chasing that loser across the fucking London downtown again.”

Belle looked up from her perch behind the cash register of her father’s small flower shop, completely shocked by the string of profanity let loose by a slight man in a brick-red, tightly-fitted suit. He stood arms akimbo in the doorway, taking stock of the place. Then he adjusted his privates with a jaunty shuffle and cocked his head at her, expectantly. 

His whole body seemed to rear back and propel itself forward as he drew breath and shouted:  
“Well, where the hell is he?”

Her first instinct was to ask him what he wanted, but Belle had a sinking suspicion that she knew what it was already. And, even if that turned out to be five hundred quid in roses, she’d console herself over the loss somehow. Men like this one were no end of trouble, and she’d known her fair share of them by the simple virtue of being Maurice “Moe” French’s daughter.

“He's not here. Please leave,” Belle replied, struggling to moderate her tone toward something that sounded neutral.

“Oi, you don’t fucking tell me my business, you twat. If Moe French doesn't pay the fuck up, you're going to be on your knees, taking cocks up the arse to help that loser pay me back. How about we take you down the alley for a good cunt-stretch, sweetie, and then we'll — What the fuck!?”

Belle cut him off mid-tirade with a sharp spritz from the bottle she used to mist the orchids, turned up to its most intense setting. She knew from experience that the spray wouldn't actually hurt anybody, but it couldn't have been pleasant to take full brunt of it to the face.

“You were being lewd and catty,” she declared, squaring her shoulders at him. If Rumplestiltskin didn't scare her, then this foul-mouthed man certainly wasn't going to bully her.

“Oh, you precious fucking bint. Did I fucking set your little puss a-quiver with all that bit about the buggers? Well, fuck me, lovey, we can maybe get you two or fucking three at a time if you ask nicely—”

Belle sprayed him again.

“Stop that!” he roared at her, slamming his fists down on the counter.

“Address me politely.”

“Fuck off.”

“There’s the door,” Belle said, pointing a manicured finger toward the way he'd come in. “You’re welcome to leave any time now.”  
“Where the fuck is Moe French? I don’t have fucking time to fuck around with some fuck-off shop girl. Moe owes me some God damned interest for the month, and I always get my fucking money. That’s the fucking way of it, sweetheart, I fucking get paid. I get paid. End of fucking story.”

Belle tried to school her features, but she knew when he switched his posture from aggressive to cocky that she must've visibly winced. She felt the pit in her stomach sink another inch. 

“Ah, you’ll be one of his bookies, then?” she asked him. She lowered her spray bottle, a fraction of an inch, and fished a small, brown book from the register. Moe had done her wrong, but he was all the family she had left – other than Baelfire – and she'd promised to help take care of him. His luck hadn't improved since the Ogre Wars, or the unfortunate incident with the Game of Thrones van.

“Care to have a seat, Mr….”

“Devine. Danny fucking Devine. And no, I do not fucking care to have a seat. I hannae got time for your tea and fucking biscuits, you twat.  Where is that loser?”

The woman’s eyes shot him a warning glare, but Danny was wet, tired, and still unpaid. It was not a good fucking day to test him.

“I,” she began, with an accent that spoke of time spent in Australia, “am Moe French’s daughter. If you want to get paid today, I suggest you settle down and talk a little business with me. Civilly.”

“No more fucking spritzer bottles, then,” Danny demanded, wary of approaching her. She had a deadly fucking aim, and he was glad there wasn't any real fucking pistol at hand.

“No more commentary on my sex life, then,” she countered. 

Fucking shame, that. He'd have liked to tell her all matter of depraved stuff about shagging, about ten dock workers destroying her cunt. He liked the way she blushed. Still, Danny assented.

“Now, then... how much does he owe you?” the beautiful woman asked.

Fuck, but she was pretty. Pretty and little, small enough that he could wrap himself around her and tuck her into his chest. Fuck.

“Two hundred quid this month, and that's just interest on the fucking rest,” Danny spat out, adjusting himself through his trousers in the hopes that she wouldn't notice he was already sporting a half-fucking-chub. She looked horrified at that, and fuck him if he didn't almost fucking blush.

Belle was a little afraid that Mr. Danny “fucking” Devine was going to pull a knife on her and hold the store up, but he seemed content just to jostle his bits. At least he wasn't going to stab her; Belle thought the sight of him handling his crotch was very tolerable, compared to that. And she had squared things away with the other lenders, bookies and loan sharks in town, so… really, it was just a matter of not backing down until she got a deal that worked in their favor. That was all Rumplestilskin's teaching at work.

Her heart twinged a little for the lover and husband she'd lost. She still thought of him every day, still wore his ring on the chain around her neck, but it had been nearly five years since she'd left Storybrooke, and there was no going back. Come to think of it, didn't Danny look a little like...

“Did you hear me? I said two fucking hundred quid. No fucking reprieves,” the man snapped, adjusting himself again, and cutting short her wool-gathering.

“Oh, Papa...” Belle muttered under her breath. She could tell Mr. Devine wasn't another run-of-the-track bookie, he'd lent her father more money than any self-respecting gambler would have risked. And if her Papa had fallen in with loan sharks again.... 

The stay in his home and shop was supposed to be a holiday, to get over her husband's passing, but that was five years ago. Thank God she had a head for negotiations and numbers, because the day she stepped off the plane she'd started work as her father's full-time financial advisor. At first she'd appreciated the distraction, but they'd been so close to clearing the red from his ledgers so many times now and he always managed to dig them in deeper the moment she gave him half-an-inch of leniency. 

This was different, though. She had no reason to suspect Danny Devine of taking her for a ride, and that meant that – once again – her Papa had lied. He'd promised her! After they finally reconciled, after the mine cart, after she recovered from the shooting at the town line... what was the point of any of it I Rumple was gone and her only living relative in this world wouldn't tell her even a simple truth?

Belle felt like crying, but she held it in. Someone had to deal with Mr. Devine, so he would leave her be. She nodded, and began to run the tip of her finger through the little, brown ledger. 

“Let me run some numbers and see what we can do...” she stalled. It didn't look good.

The woman, as enticing a woman as he'd ever seen – though he was used to surgically enhanced breasts on display in tight, leather bustiers – looked as though she was giving everything a good think. That was a fucking rarity in the women Danny had seen lately, and in his piss-poor clientele, in general, too. A smart fucking girl, he thought, as she knitted her fine brow; she might make something of herself, if not for the fuckwit father. Then again, she looked mid-end of thirty, so maybe she wasn't going to do too fucking much more than work in a fucking flower shop for the rest of her fucking life. Hard to tell, based just on her tits and blue eyes.

“How much does he owe you, all together?” she asked, finally.

“Twelve hundred quid.”

The woman squared her shoulders, and looked him in the eye – really fucking looked at him. He could tell, for the first time, that she was used to dealing with creeps like him from time to time. That was a fucking surprise, she hadn't worn her bravery like a badge but there it was – fucking looking at him. 

Fucking shame, really, that a man like Moe couldn’t take care of his own fucking kid. He had a business that was getting along, a home, and a nice fucking family by the look of it. No fucking reason at all to be tied up with the likes of him, except he liked to gamble and took to his cups.

“Do you realize that is a seventeen percent interest rate?” Moe's daughter asked him, after a quick calculation. She had the nerve to sound indignant about it, a little fucking enraged. He liked it.

“Is it? I fucking ought to raise my prices then, hadn’t I? Old Mickey Blue-Bollock down the way charges a full twenty five. That's twenty fucking five per cent, mind you. How do you like that, hn?”

“Listen,” the woman started again, trying a more congenial tone.

“No, you listen, sweetie. I fucking get paid. That’s what I do. So you either hand over the cash or tell me where you fuck-all, good for fucking nothing father is. No. Fucking. Reprieves. You got that?”

For a second, he thought she was going to spray him again. For a second, he almost wanted her to. Fuck him, he was so fucking screwed.

“Thing is, Mr. Devine, my Papa has a list of past creditors that could line the entire Thames, on both sides. You can’t all take everything from us every month – then it’s a race to pay day, and you’re really only in competition with yourselves. I’ll give you the same offer I gave Mickey the other month: 160 per cent of the original debt, in this case two thousand pounds, paid out over the next eight months and contingent on two things. One, you will not loan my father any more money, and two, I will pay each month, on time, or the deal is forfeit.”

Fuck him, but she was almost good at this.

If she actually paid him on time, he’d see more of his money than he usually did, and without the chase-and-fucking-hunting trip. The only problem was, no one ever fucking paid him. If they did, it was because they'd borrowed from somebody else to get him off their fucking backs. Then, without fucking fail, they got themselves in even deeper with the new outfit, and then in a year or so they’d be back to the Devine, looking to take out two or three times what he'd originally lent. He could turn a profit at it, but it was a lot of numbers just jostled columns and he had to waste his own fucking time collecting from the twats.

“180%,” he counter-offered.

“160,” she repeated. “Not counting what he already paid you.”

Ha, Moe French already pay him? Fucking hell, that'd be a nice change of pace. Danny kept his trap shut and thought about it. Even if he let her low-ball him, it was still a good fucking deal. If she paid. Which she wouldn't, but if he tried it out he would at least have an excuse to come in and check out her arse again.

“Well, you are a hard old girl. Fuck me, fine. But you fucking pay on time, and you fucking keep your no-fucking-good father out of my establishments, do you hear? I dinnae want to see that fuck drinking away my money, aye?”

The woman winced, but opened the register and handed him the two hundred and fifty quid she owed for the month, at the new rate.

“You have a deal, Mr. Devine. And… I’ll try. He’s difficult, but I think you already knew that. If you told your people not to let him in, it'd do us both a service in the long run.”

“Well, now that we're of a similar fucking mind, is Moe here or not? He can fucking come out and shake my fucking hand like a respectable fucking adult, if he is. I'd love to tell that cunt in pre-fucking-cise detail why he's not coming back to my fucking Club.” 

“He isn't here,” the daughter said, and this time he believed her. She looked too fucking sad for a liar, the habitual ones always got some sick fucking jolly out of it. 

“I didn't know about... well, that.” She gestured to the money in Danny's hand. “Otherwise I'd have found a way to make sure he was here to meet you.”

“Fucking lot of good it did him, too, hiding behind his kid,” grumbled the loan-shark, sliding the bills into his pocket.

She offered him her hand a second time, empty. He looked at it, incredulous. What the fuck?

“Care to shake on it with me instead, Mr. Devine?”

Danny wiped the sweat from his palm on his trouser leg and reached out, tentative. No one ever fucking wanted to shake his hand, unless it was with a hundred quid note to pay him off on the sly for some sort of under-table shit.

Sure, he could shake her hand. He'd like to do more than that, but you didn't get into bed with people you were in business with. 

“A fucking pleasure, Miss French,” Danny grinned, baring his teeth in an almost-grimace.

“It's Gold, actually. Missus. You can call me Belle, though, everyone does,” the girl replied. She nodded to the photo on the back wall, an older gentleman in a tailored, black suit, with a frame draped in a bit of black silk. That only meant one fucking thing.

Ah, well.. that was interesting, anyway. Widow. Not uncommon, just not anticipated. At least she wasn't a broken-fucking-record of “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I'm sorry...” She had a plan to pay him, an didn't expect extra sympathy because her loser husband was dead.

Everyone always said they were sorry, so fucking sorry, that they had to pay him, no one ever said they were sorry they took the money, though. Hell, if Moe French’s girl kept her word, she was going to be the high-fucking-light of his collections.

“Well, Belle,” he purred, leaning on her name. Fuck, but it felt good on his tongue. Belle. Belle with the Squirt Bottle. “Don’t be fucking late and we’ll get along like famous fucking mates.” 

Danny shifted his stance in a flashy display of showmanship and cockiness, turned on his heel, and left.  
Belle thought he was certainly a colorful sort of low-life. And he hadn’t offered to take the interest out of her in trade for sex. Mr. Gold, Rumpelstiltskin, would have skewered those men alive for even suggesting it. But… she didn’t have him. And she didn't have her Papa, either; the longer she spent in this world, the more she tried to deny it, Belle was coming to realize that the noble part of Sir Maurice was dead. And Moe French... Moe French was not very nice.

Her husband had taught her how to deal with bad men, but not bad fathers. Ironic, really, even though thinking that was a bit unkind. For Rumple's lessons in handling garden-variety low-lifes, though, she was grateful. 

Yes, Danny Devine could definitely have been a whole lot worse than he was.  For a swearing, swaggering loan-shark, he was positively tame.

But then, didn't he look a bit like…? It was hard to say, they carried themselves so differently.  Belle pushed the thought away and went about her day. She only had a few more hours before she'd have to corner her father about some very important things.


	2. Getting the Hang of Wednesdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Exchange, set 3 months after Chapter 1. Rated M for language and sexual content.

Danny hated Wednesdays. It wasn't close enough to Saturday that he could look forward to collecting from Belle French, and it was too far from the previous collection round for him to recall perfectly that intoxi-fucking-cating scent of roses and something spicy that hung around the air in her flower shop. If someone had told him he'd rather be out on the street collecting his money, which usually amounted to chasing down a never-ending list of losers and calling their loved ones with talk of cocks and debts, he'd have laughed in that person's fucking face. 

The old Danny Devine liked staying in, he liked his Parrot Club, his dancers, and serving his fucking drinks at a marked-up price. He'd worked hard for this. But no, he'd rather be out collecting from a flower girl he'd known all of three months. Jesus fucking Christ, he was in for it.

As it was, he had his hands full wrangling the cunts he worked with on a daily basis into producing something other than shit and wishes to pay their debts with; most of them did their level-fucking-best to dodge him, and a few even succeeded. Unlucky fuckers lasted a whole two or three days before he'd set his enforcers on them. Losers, liars, and cheapskates. Danny couldn't fucking stand them. 

He was the biggest dick in the line-up among a bunch of flaccid little vagabonds and pricks, which — he supposed — meant he amounted to a nice steaming heap of shit to the decent, law-abiding folks. Still, it was a very fucking lucrative shit-heap, and it was his. He did his business from the back office of the Parrot Club, he always got paid, and fuck him, but he liked it that way.

Belle French — Mrs. Gold, he had to remind himself — was never  like that.  Ever since they made their new deal three fucking months ago, she always paid what she owed. Well, what her fuck-off Dad owed. Old Moe even gave the whores and cards a wide berth — for a while.

“Well, well, what the fuck do we have here?” Danny asked, looking down his nose at the man himself. “If it isn't father-of-the-fucking year, Mr. Cock-Up-The-Arse himself!”

Moe only flinched and brandished a bit of cash at him.

The wanker knew was banned at all of the Devine establishments, unless he had cash to spend – a concession he had to make, as a business man; if his daughter couldn't keep him at fucking home, that wasn't Danny's problem. Moe got nothing on credit any more, no more fucking loans, and that was that. 

As it turned out, tonight the troublesome florist had a wide wad of bills in his hand. He'd crammed himself into what might have been a nice suit twenty years ago, and – wherever he'd been before coming into the Parrot Club – he'd worked up a sweat.

“I'm only in for a drink,” Moe stammered when Danny's posture didn't relax.

“Left that pretty girl of yours home tonight, did we?” Danny surmised, scratching his balls and running his hands through his hair. It felt a little greasier than he liked.  ”What the fuck are you doing in here, French?”

“I won the lottery,” the older man tried.  ”300 quid.”

“Oh, aye?” asked Danny, strutting a bit. It was more likely that Danny'd decide to bend himself over and shove a pint glass up his own ass than that Moe French had come by that money, any amount of money, legally. That meant someone else was lending to him, and for that Danny would have to break a few knee caps.

”Well, I’ll be taking that,” he said, snatching the money from the florist’s hands.  ”And you’d best tell Belle I’ll still be seeing her on Saturday for the usual amount.”

“That’s not fair!” protested Moe, rising to his feet in a huff. Maybe it wasn't, but Moe had better hope the money he'd just fucking forfeit would stretch to whatever debt he owed. And he'd better hope the stupid asshole who was lending to him again wasn't one of the small-timers on Danny's own payroll, because that would be an epic fucking disaster for everyone involved.

Danny merely sneered at Moe and returned to his office, to use the phone. Even if one of his guys didn't float French the loan, they'd know in a few hours who had done it, and Danny disliked being defied in his own fucking home turf. Then again, Moe was exactly the kind of devious little cunt who'd hop the tube and go to where he wasn't known. 

He was at his wits’ end with this prick. This fucking man, a sodding, fucking waste of good beer and hot chips, was a lot of work. A lot of fucking work. He didn't know how Belle could stand him. Was there nothing she wouldn't forgive? Fuck.

In his line of work, Danny had seen four or five dozen sniveling little cunts bury themselves in drink, women, and debt, but only the miserable or desperate ones. For them, Danny'd been another brick along the path to destruction, but most of his clients were run-of-the-mill, average-fucking-blokes who walked the razor's edge to keep up appearances for family and friends. Failed, corporate types whose wives wouldn't piss on them to put a fire out; bookies with habits to support; jack-off kids with their whole fucking lives ahead of them, looking to get ahead and still be lazy as fuck. All of them, plus the ones set on immo-fucking-lation, but none of that prepared him for Moe Fuck-Off French.

He didn't have any fucking excuses, just the usual loser looking to die rich, and a kind, beautiful, fucking flawless daughter who wanted him to live.

Oh yes, Danny was fucked. A pair of blue eyes, nice tits, and a spray bottle apparently fucking did it for him. Besotted little shit that he was, he was going to go out of his fucking way to make sure Moe's newest transgression didn't leave Belle unable to pay him come Saturday. Fuck him, but he wanted her to succeed. 160 per-fucking-cent, a total rip to his profits, but he got a little hard just thinking about those lush, full lips smiling at him across the counter at the flower shop.

Belle deserved so much more from life than… than this.  She deserved more than a father like Moe and a loan shark like him, anyway. Whatever else she deserved, he'd be all too happy to give it to her vis-a-vis his swollen cock.

 It was with a nearly full hard-on that Danny instructed his bouncers to toss the woman’s fuck-wit father to the curb.  Belle might be cross with him, but then — it had been her requirement that he deny the man service.  It was part of their deal.

Then he settled into his gorgeous parrot chair and got to work. His erection flagged somewhat in the onslaught of bookies, couriers, and enforcers making excuses about the French loan, but it didn't stop him from jostling his cock more times than was strictly necessary as he recalled her little rosebud mouth.

Finally, on his third call, he got a promising lead.

“Oi, Mickey, do you know where you money's gone? Do you fucking know where that stupid fuck went? Into my fucking bar, you blue-bollocked cock. I told you, I said Mickey, don't lend any more fucking money to Moe Fucking French. I said it. I said. And what do you do, you great, crusty cunt? Three fucking hundred quid, you stupid fuck-up.

“Oh, four fucking hundred quid. Well that's fucking wonderful, ennit? Ennit? I said isn't it, you stupid fuck!? Don't give that loser any more fucking money or I'll break your fucking arms. Did you hear what I said? Did you hear what I said!?” Danny raged at him, slamming the receiver on his desk to punctuate each time he paused for breath.

“Danny, I didn't--”

“Oh you did. You mother-fucking did. Well consider that your fee for doing business, you cunting knob. Four hundred fucking quid, and you don't get to fucking collect it. Do you got that, Mick? Do you fucking got that? You stupid, fucking shite, no wonder your wife's letting Jacobs fuck her on the side. She likes a real fucking man who knows where to put his dick. 

“And where did you try to put your dick, Mick? Right up my fucking arse. Well fuck you, and fuck your wife too, the slut. Nobody fucks me in the arse, Mickey-boy. I get fucking paid, and if I say don't lend Moe Fucking French money, you don't lend him a red fucking cent. Do you got that?!”

Finally out of breath, Danny slammed down the phone and ran his hands through his hair again. Somewhere in the mix, when he'd started to feel like some white fucking knight coming to the French girl's defense, he'd let himself get hard again.

Danny pressed his panic button, locking the office down so tight that his own dear mum would need an invitation and a cutting-torch to walk in. Fuck, but he needed to come.

Belle deserved better than this, too, but that didn't stop him from easing himself out of his too-tight pants and wrapping a tight hand around his shaft until it almost bruised him. He jerked at his cock like a sinner in church, looking for a hot, fast spurt and a little pain afterward to remind him what a completely depraved fucking loser he really was.

Fuck, he could feel his balls drawing up for it, but he just couldn't find the fucking edge. He imagined her, then, but not her face. If she looked at him, he'd have to explain himself, and he didn't have anything. She was fucking nice to him, and he never knew what to say.

No, it was better if she was bent over his desk with her face away. He imagined her in one of the cocktail dresses he liked, skirt pushed up around her hips, and a pair of white, cotton panties cupping the slight bulge of her lower lips. It was an easy image, one he was familiar with from every porno and cum-rag he'd ever looked at, but with Belle's dress, Belle's hair, Belle's scent

“Fuck,” Danny groaned. He was close, so fucking close, and he just couldn't...

The fantasy changed suddenly on him. This time, he had her in profile, splayed out over his desk, looking at the handsome stranger who was pounding her with both of her legs over his shoulders. It wasn't him. It was never fucking going to be him, because posh fucking shop girls didn't fuck disgusting fucking loan sharks, and...

Something that started as “fuck” but ended as a guttural, groaning moan escaped his lips as he shot hot spunk all over his desk.

*

That Saturday, Danny wasn’t sure whether he wanted the dreaded spray bottle and a slap or a hug and a kiss.  What if she knew he'd done her loser Dad a solid? What if she knew about the other stuff?

That part almost made him blush, and he adjusted himself out of habit, even though it wasn't so obvious with this suit's more forgiving cut.

He'd put on a suit that fit him a little more elegantly, slicked his hair back with cologne, and generally tried to make something of himself. It was fucking futile, but he'd desecrated every fucking inch of her in the privacy of his own mind, so he might as fucking well get dressed up and treat her right for a few precious moments. He could have collected once a month, two hundred and fifty quid per installment wasn't a terrible lot in his line of work. Instead, he'd pretended that he misunderstood and showed up every week, like fucking clockwork, for his measly 57 pounds. 

Well, why the hell not? She'd never know either way, but it helped with the guilt. In any other circumstances he might have made a real pass at her, but she'd rebuked him the first time and he never, ever mixed business with pleasure. It wasn't fucking done, not by him, so – even if she'd have let him – he couldn't fuck her.

“Hello?” Danny called in the small flower shop. “Belle?”

There was no response. She always responded. He was the fuck-wit cock-up who didn't know how to string two fucking words together without falling into a fit of cussing and bollocking it all up; she was the calm-as-fucking-chamomile one who chirped so nicely, and sometimes made him tea.

“Is anybody fucking home?” he tried again.

“Yes, sorry!” she called, popping her head out from the walk-in cooler. “Your money’s on the counter, in the beige envelope.”

“Aren't you going to come out of there and say hello to me?” he demanded, hiding his want behind a layer of sarcasm.  
“Hello!” Belle replied, teasing him, before going back into the cooler. Well, he'd gotten exactly what he'd asked for. Poor, literal little fuck that he was, he got what he'd asked for for once.

Belle poked her head back out of the cooler again. “Did you need something, Mr. Devine?” she asked, a worried look on her face. He wasn't usually one to linger, he knew, but it was just his fucking luck that she'd be busy the one day he got to see her.

“No,” Danny muttered. “No, I’m just fucking fine.”

Sour, he turned on his heel and left abruptly, leaving her beige envelope behind. Fuck him. Fuck him right in the arse. Fuck him, and for that matter fuck everybody else too. It might as well have been another fucking Wednesday at the bar for all the good this visit had done to curb his want. 

Fuck, but he was in for it. Fucking cunt tits fuck.


	3. Crime and Punishment

Danny had a long, slow drudge back to the Club. Fucking hell, he was a grown-fucking-man, not some panty-twisted twit who skulked about little fucking girls in their flower shops. Never mind she was on the wrong fucking side of thirty, never mind she was as much a grown-fucking woman as he'd ever had the pleasure to see, he was just a stupid boy who liked a pretty girl, and that simple fact made him furious as fuck.

He'd have to go a long fucking distance out of his way to find a slut that pressed all the same buttons, or he could pay for it, but even that was a fucking chore when you lent money. Never mix business and pleasure, first fucking rule of loan-sharking. Little upstart shits came into the fringes of his territory all the fucking time, but it had been nigh on a decade since he'd had to bloody somebody. They all got wrapped up in the perky tits and cheap drugs, some of them wore out their welcome in a matter of weeks.

Danny had principles, and that gave his operations longevity. Fuck him, though, but he did need to get it out of his fucking system. Nothing would do for it now, but a petite lady with chestnut hair and those sodding blue eyes. And Belle? Belle wouldn't even fucking look at him, couldn't be bothered to give him the fucking time of day.

Clever girl. Very fucking clever. He was a loser, big fucking fish in the swamp, but she was in an entirely different tank. Fucking Wednesdays. He needed another fucking wank.

When he arrived at the Club, all thoughts of Belle as anything other than a client came to a grinding halt. Every fucking thing was wrong. The bar-back had buggered off without setting up the kegs. One of his best gals was out with a fucking cold, and if that wasn't code for “alcohol poisoning,” he didn't fucking know what it was supposed to fucking be. And to top it all off, the biggest fucking loser in his debt had tried to pay him with a cheque. A personal fucking cheque.

It gave him the urge to punch something.

Danny picked up the phone and a bottle of whiskey, then retreated to his office for the evening. Work first, then – if he could still get it hard a full bottle in – he'd find a willing quim and sate an entirely different kind of urge.

Two hours later, he had consumed half the bottle and shouted himself hoarse. 

“Let me put it in fucking perspective for you, hey?” he snarled. 

He'd started out making calls, stared for as long as he could stomach at his dancing girls, but nothing had cut through the revulsion and regret like talking down to an aspiring M.P.

“Picture your wife, on a fucking holiday with your kids, bunch of press shit heads lingering in the sidelines, and then there’s me — with my damn fists full of photos. Well fuck me, look! They’re all the cunting missus, being ripped up by some big rugby bloke with his cock up her arse and the rest of the fucking team waiting to have a go. She’s fucking loving it, of course she fucking is. You swatting around her cunt with that little fuck-off dick ent doing a fucking thing for no one, is it? IS IT?

“No, it fucking is not. Oh, she’ll take it fucking good and hard. Maybe two or three at a time, if she's a real dirty girl!” Danny slammed both palms on the desk before continuing, sloshing the drink in his glass over the rim.

“And that’s all you’ll have to look the fuck forward to from Pissing Father Christmas: a whole fucking rugby team buggering your wife while I snap off photos of her moaning like a ten-quid whore. Because women don't fuck losers! They don't fuck losers, Paul! They don't fucking fuck losers, and that's what you're going to be! That’s the what you can fucking look forward to if I don’t have me money by the end of business this-fucking-week. Are we clear?”

The man looked sufficiently cowed, and Danny leaned back into his custom-built seat. The giant parrot had saved his life at least twice, but it was fuck-all worthless for comfort. Still, he wasn't about to replace it; he liked the eccentric combination of form, function and style. It suited his business need.

Danny Devine got paid. That’s what he did — he didn't court pretty widows or go on dates, those were schemes he’d concocted in a fit of insanity. Mrs. Gold was indebted to him, nothing more and nothing less. He'd never once made someone feel they had to suck his dick to clear their debt, not once in his fucking life, but wouldn't that make it all so much fucking easier in the end? He could just fucking have her, on her knees, bobbing and nibbling at him.

He wouldn't even touch her. Wouldn't force a kiss, or make her swallow it, or get his mess anywhere it could do any fucking harm. Just her mouth, her hands, and maybe he could pet her hair a bit.

Danny could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, and could smell the stench of booze and smoke on his coat when Paul exited his triple-thick, sound-proofed door and let in a burst of what passed for fresh air in their part of London. He’d be back, and if he didn't have Danny’s money then there would very fucking sorry. If anyone had ever described him as forgiving, they would not make the same mistake today — he fucking hated Wednesdays.

She’d just been so… so… Every fucking time he went around to collect, there she was, fucking smiling at him. Or spraying him with that damn squirt-toy. He was smitten as a fucking school boy, and she was fuck-off oblivious. Too damn good for him, by a long shot. 

Or maybe playing hard-to-fucking-get in the hopes that he’d reduce her father’s debt?

That was a tempting one. He could tell himself she was asking for it, and then it wouldn't be so fucking wrong to jerk himself off thinking about her.

Danny ran his hands through his hair and it stayed slicked back. Fucking greasy scum-bag. He had nothing to offer her, and it was bad policy to mix business and pleasure anyway. 

Belle liked funny, didn't she? She laughed at him every once in a while, when he was making a bigger arse of himself than usual, and she caught him in the face with that damn spray-bottle of hers if he took it too far. But it was the way she crinkled her nose when she laughed, really laughed, or smiled at him — genuinely — as if the thought of offering him sex for lee-way was the furthest thing from her mind, that really captivated Danny. She was sin-fucking-cere, so fucking sweet.

He'd have thought knowing her father would have made him less sympathetic to her predicament, Moe was a bum in most respects, but all Moe did was give Danny extra incentive to be nice to her. Fucking nice.

He took another pull of drink from the quickly emptying bottle and lit a cigarette.

“Mr. Devine,” said his doorman’s voice over the intercom. “There’s a woman here to see you.”

“Unless her tits can tune in the fucking Liverpool match, I don’t see the fucking point,” Danny bit back. Whoever it was, he wasn’t in the mood for pussy or tears. That mythical look-alike slut wasn't going to cut it, so – whoever it was – she could go the fuck away.

“She says she has your money,” the door man tried again. Bless the cunt, he was trained well. They never turned away someone who intended to pay.

“Fuck it, fine,” Devine conceded, running his hands through his face. ”Send her in.”

To his utter fucking surprise, Belle Gold walked in.

“Mr. Devine,” she grinned. Her smile looked more strained than usual, and he immediately hated himself for whatever he'd done to make her come into the Parrot Club. It usually made nice people nervous, and Belle was on the up-and-up.

“You forgot this,” Belle told him, holding up a familiar beige envelope. Her eyes made a scan of the room, pausing on the giant parrot a fraction of a second longer than was strictly polite. “I like your bird,” she said when he didn't move to take the money.

What he wouldn't have given for a big oak desk and a leather chair, whatever the posh blokes used. She’d really like that.

“Well fuck me,” he groaned, “I guess I did forget.” Danny motioned for her to drop it on the pile of papers littering his desk and leaned back further into his parrot-cave. It felt good to hide a little, made him feel more secure even though she was encroaching on his territory for a change.

“Are you OK, Mr. Devine?” Belle asked, taking a seat opposite him.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Danny shot back. He knew it was the whiskey talking, but it was better that she leave before he forgot himself and tried something embarrassing.

“It’s just, you’re all about the money, and you forgot it today. To be honest, I was a little worried,” Belle replied, meeting his eyes for the first time. Stupid. He'd avoided her gaze, and now it was fucking awkward, but there she was – long legs and big blue eyes, waiting for him to say something that passed for intelligent.

“No need to worry about an old fuck-wit like me,” he mumbled back. 

He could offer her a trade — it might be worth it, just the once, to break his own rule and take out her father’s debt in sex. She would probably smell as fresh as she looked — a little sprig of flowers in a cool mist — and he could tell by looking that her skin would be softer than the leather-faced hatchet-jobs he had working the floor this evening.

“Well, as long as you’re not falling to pieces on me,” Belle smiled. “Not when I'm just getting used to seeing you every week.”

“You’re well on your way to having our account squared away,” he conceded. “I wouldn't fucking want to start from scratch with a new bloke either.” He meant another loan shark, one of hundreds in the city who would take over his territory if he failed and folded, but Danny couldn't help but feel he’d accidentally tilted his hand by speaking carelessly.

Belle seemed momentarily at a loss for words, eyes darting around the room to stall. It gave him a chance to look at her — really look at her. She wasn’t wearing the usual uniform of her father’s flower shop, instead she wore an old, but undeniably expensive, dress and a pair of pumps. It was a good fucking look for her — classy and demure — not that Danny had ever appreciated a woman showing less skin before he met Mrs. Gold.

“Oh, are you a fan of Dostoevsky?” asked Belle, eyes finally settling on a ratty paperback someone had left — like a fucking idiot — on his wet bar the other week.

“What?” Danny asked. Doveski? What the fuck was that?  
“Crime and Punishment,” she pointed to the book. “It’s about… well, it’s not really about any one thing, but it's vaguely about the penal system, and moralism in psychology.”

“Oh. Uh... I haven't really finished it yet,” Danny bluffed, beyond caring that his suit was sticking to him and his breath smelled like whiskey. Tact was never his strong point, nor was keeping his fucking mouth shut like any sane, self-respecting arse hole on the street would have done. Of course believe that.

Like an idiot, he just kept talking. “Do you, uh, maybe want to tell me what it's supposed to mean? Over coffee?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” blushed Belle. “I have to meet my husband’s estate attorney tonight, there was a challenge to his will and it’s still being held in escrow until Regina’s satisfied she’s wrung every last drop of misery from the proceedings. Maybe… maybe some other time?” 

Danny thought she sounded infinitely less disgusted than she ought to be.

“Sure,” Danny nodded, swallowing hard to keep his voice steady. “Another time.” He thought he probably looked like a kicked dog.

As he showed Belle to the door, she turned around and caught his cheek for a quick, chaste kiss. It wasn't more than a peck, really, but she followed it up with a sweet, secret smile just for him, and he knew that he was a lost fucking cause. What was it they said? Something with words.

“Feel better, Danny,” she told him. Then she left.

Belle left him grinning like an fucking idiot in his office. 

Fuck, but he was actually going to have to read that fucking book, wasn't he? Maybe he could find a way to cheat his way through. And he was sure as fuck going to look into this Regina person. No one got to make his little Belle miserable, not over fucking money — that was his particular field of expertise, the one place where he was the undis-fucking-sputed king.


End file.
